


Static

by Anirrahn



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Minor Side Characters, Soulmates, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anirrahn/pseuds/Anirrahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons is only seven when he hears it for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Simmons is only seven when he hears it for the first time.

His mother is rushing around, trying to get all the kids in a line so she can take a group photo. The kids are difficult to manage, too busy laughing and pushing at each other. It makes him uncomfortable when they touch him, but he pastes a smile on his face anyway because it made his mom light up whenever she looked towards him. Eventually, she manages to herd them all in front of the table, his birthday cake resting just behind them.

“Everybody ready?” she steadies her grip on the camera, “Say cheese!”

“Wait!” Simmons blurts, raising his hands high up the in air.

His mother starts and looks at him in concern, “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“Dad’s not here yet. He’ll miss the pictures.”

He pretends not to notice the slight shift in his mother’s expression before she covers it with a smile, “Daddy’s on his way, sweetie. He just got a little caught up at work is all. I’m sure he won’t mind if we take pictures without him.”

He hesitates for a second, but nods, not wanting to cause a scene. The other kids are already looking at him curiously and he doesn’t want to deal with any more unwanted attention. His mother looks relieved and moves back to taking the picture. If his posture is tense and his smile stiff, she doesn’t say anything.

After the picture is taken, the kids start to talk excitedly again, looking eagerly at the cake. His mother scolds one little boy when he attempt to touch it. Simmons doesn’t pay very close attention to any of it. He just wonders when his dad will get home. His tiny fists clench and his throat feels uncomfortably dry.

That’s when Simmons hears the static.

It crackles and hisses, sudden and completely unexpected. It sends a chill deep inside him and makes his heart pound. For a moment, he thinks he might be afraid but something about it makes him unsure. He can’t help but jump when it pops loudly in his ear, sounding for all the world like a string of words. He doesn’t quite catch it.

“What?” he asks, but the answer he gets is from someone else entirely.

“I said, are you alright, Richie?” his mother is looking at him, her expression worried.

“Yes.” he replies automatically, still busy concentrating on the buzzing that has not yet receded.

His mother looks unconvinced.

He tries a more honest approach, “It’s nothing. Just the static.”

His mother drops the camera. She stares.

He attempts to clarify, “For a second, I almost thought it was saying something. I was just busy trying to figure it out.”

He feels satisfied with that explanation. His mother always calls him smart for his age and praises his curiosity. He’s sure that she will understand why he needs to focus on what the static is saying, especially since it seems to be quieting down. He tries to give her a reassuring smile.

She doesn’t return it.

 

He’s ten when it really starts to irritate him. He takes to smacking the side of his head, just above his right ear, trying to drown out the noise. It’s gotten louder lately and he can’t seem to focus on anything but the sizzles and snaps in his head.

He’s sitting on the floor of his bedroom as he does this, head hanging low. He’s blissfully unaware of the door opening in front of him till he hears a broken yell. Before he can explain, his mother has pulled his arms down and pinned them to his sides, choosing to pull him into her lap instead. Simmons struggles to breathe as she squeezes him tight to her chest.

“Richie, _please_ ,” his mother says in a half-choked voice, “ _Please_ don’t do that to yourself.”

His heart aches. He never meant to make her sad. He frees a pinned arm and curls it around his mother’s waist, “It’s okay, mom. It didn’t really hurt.”

He’s about to continue but stops when he sees the way that she’s watching him, expression pained and face wet with tears. She moves a shaking hand to brush the side of his face and takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, her look is one of tired resignation, “But it won’t help either, sweetheart. It won’t make the noise go away.”

His eyes go wide and he struggles to push away from her arms. He scoots back far enough to look clearly up at her, accusation written all over his face. He feels the familiar pang of betrayal become even sharper than usual because he’s never expected to encounter it with her.

She’d told him the sounds weren’t real. She’d told him to just ignore them and they’d go away. She hadn’t even believed him, insisting it was just his imagination and avoiding all his questions. He frowns at her and resists when tries to pull him close again.

“How come you believe me _now?_ ” he’s happy he’s not crying yet. He’s learned a lot in the last three years. He knows that crying never helps. After all, it didn't bring dad back. He needs to be brave no matter what the situation.

His mother sighs, “I’ve always believed you, baby.”

“Liar!” his eyes are starting to sting and his vision is getting a little blurry but he still refuses to cry. He also wants to apologise for yelling but he’s angry and can’t find it in himself to forgive her just yet. It’s hard for him. He trusted his mom. She was supposed to be on his side. He scoots further away from her.

“Richie…” his mother watches him with sad eyes, “Just… just give me a chance to explain.”

Forgiveness is still a ways off  but he can’t deny that he’s curious. He folds his thin arms across his chest and nods cautiously at her. He listens to her talk.

 

There’s a girl in his English class that smiles at him every time he speaks. It makes him instantly flush and shy away from her gaze which somehow only causes her to laugh. The noises have only gotten progressively louder year after year but he finds that they fade away into the background when he notices her watching.

Today is different. Instead of just smiling at him from across their desks, she walks up to him after class as soon as the bell rings. He catches her eye and his hands instantly start to sweat. He briefly curses puberty for making him such an awkward fifteen year old.

“Richard! Do you mind if I walk with you to your locker?” her smile is radiant and he knows he’ll be going red before he can stop it.

“Y-yeah, that’s fine. I mean, if you want.” he goes for a casual shrug but ends up jolting his body in such an awkward manner that he drops his books on the ground with a yelp. He hears her laugh a little in surprise and mumbles an apology before stooping to pick up his things.

His face is flaming. Even worse is that, as his embarrassment grows, so does the volume of the noises in his head. There’s a mixture of sharp cracks and hisses and it’s all he can to do resist the temptation to cover his ears. He doesn't want to risk alerting others to his condition.

He thinks she may be saying something to him but she sounds distant and all he can really focus on is his trembling hands and the chaos in his head. He hardly notices when she crouches down next to him. It’s when she places her hand on his shoulder that Simmons looks up at her in shock, “Hey, are you alright?”

“I…” he takes a moment to stare at her in confusion, wondering how the sounds could have fallen silent the instant that she touched him, “I think so.”

She smiles, “Well then, let me help you pick those up.”

As her hand slides off his shoulder the static returns, but it’s no longer raging like it was only moments ago. It’s calmed; a low pulsing at the back of his head. He feels a surge of relief, grateful that it’s at a level he can handle. He’s had more than enough time to practice ignoring it after all.

She holds out her hand to help him up once they’re done and Simmons manages to throw a shy smile her way as they walk towards his locker. She’s talking animatedly and he’s easily able to focus on her instead of the ever-present background chatter in his head. She gives him a wave as she drops him off by his locker and runs to make her next class. He stands there a while longer and wonders if he should have another talk with his mother.

 

He tells himself that he’s never going to drink again. Not because he’s particularly drunk. No, the party’s been going on for hours now and he’s only really downed a few drinks. It’s not even because he's starting to feel muggy and heated. The alcohol in combination with the huge crowd of people makes it only natural that he’d feel a little hot. He only tells himself this because he finds himself staring at the guy he’s been talking to for the last half hour and wondering what it would be like to kiss him. As soon as the thought fully forms, he jumps up from where he’s seated on the couch.

“Whoa, what’s wrong, Dick?” the guy gets up as well, concern written across his features, even with his dark hair shrouding his face.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s,” Simmons takes a deep breath and instantly regrets it, the heavy, humid scent of the party making his stomach churn, “I just feel a little sick.”

He watches Simmons carefully for a moment before nodding, “Right, okay. Let’s get you outside.”

He wants to protest. He wants to insist he’s all right on his own. He feels shaky and he needs to get away but he finds himself forcing a smile and walking along with him anyway. As they edge their way through the crowd, someone presses another drink into his hands with a warm laugh and a 'friendly' slap on his ass. He thinks he might actually vomit.

All the while, Simmons tries hard to ignore him but it proves fruitless. The heat of his hands as he guides him through the crowd makes him shiver. His nerves are getting the best of him; he wonders if his hands are shaking. He takes another unsteady breath and lifts the red cup to his lips. If nothing else, at least it’ll soothe his nervousness. The dark haired boy turns towards him again, frowning when he sees Simmons drain the cup dry.

“I don’t think the cure to alcohol poisoning involves more alcohol.”

The disapproval in his voice makes his insides squirm, “Sorry.”

He looks surprised, “I mean, you don’t have to apologise to me. You can do whatever you feel comfortable with. I just didn’t think you were all that fond of drinking to begin with so it just seems a little weird that you’d want more when you’re already starting to feel sick.”

He says nothing. He's focusing very hard on not feeling anything either. Not his warm, soft hand on his, not the friendly, concerned tone of his voice; nothing. Most of all, he avoids looking anywhere near his mouth.

It’s easy at first, because they’re walking side by side. He says something and Simmons responds by looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Not at all suspicious, he thinks. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last.

Quicker than he’d like, they’re outside in the backyard.

He turns to face Simmons, “It’s better out here, yeah? Less crowded and way less noisy too.”

Simmons wouldn’t know. He’s long since given up on ever having the bliss of silence, living instead with the strange half-formed words rattling around in his head. His mother had explained to him patiently that there was just no chance of that. While there may be ways to initiate a temporary quiet from the sounds, it was never permanent. She further warned that it often wasn’t worth it either.

He remembered telling her about the girl from his class. Remembered telling her how the crackling had stopped the second that she’d touched him only to start up again once she’d let go. His mother had sighed and nodded, a deep set sadness in her eyes. Touch was important, she’d said. So very important. But then she’d pulled away from him and stressed once more that it just wasn’t worth it. He didn’t question her further. He hadn’t wanted to pry and prod at the stiffness that had settled over her or the dark, distant gaze she held. He left it alone.

But now, two years later, watching the guy in front of him grin as his heart beats faster and the static in his head overpowers all other sounds, Simmons thinks that maybe, sometimes, it could be worth it.

So he leans forward, clumsily and uncoordinated, dropping his empty cup from his hand. He places his hands on either side of the other teenager’s waist and pulls him close, pressing their lips together. For one amazingly, perfect, _glorious_ moment, there is absolute silence.

Then he pulls away.

“I, uh…” he looks down at his shoes as he attempts to explain himself, “S-sorry, I just…”

“No, it’s,” when Simmons looks up, he’s shocked to see him smiling, “It’s fine. It was… pretty nice, actually.”

“Oh! Um... _really?_ ” he thinks he may be numb with relief.

“Sure! It was kinda short though.”

“Ah, yeah…” he can hear the slow buzz of the silence in his head dissipating. The low, not-quite whispers are always the first to return. His first thought is that the quiet lasted longer this time around.

He grins, eyes bright under the shade of his dark hair, “You up for trying again?”

Simmons’s stomach churns. He wants to say yes. He wants to lean forward and press their lips together again. He wants to embrace the silence and enjoy what the moment will offer him.

Instead, Simmons throws up all over his shoes.

 

He learns how long he can make the silence last.

A simple touch from someone he cares for, whether romantically or otherwise, will bring forth the quiet till they let go of each other again. When he discovers this, he spends as much time as he can spare holding his mother’s hand or even giving her a hug when possible. For the both of them. If she knows why he’s doing it, she never brings it up.

A kiss will keep the silence for a full minute if it’s meaningful but chaste. It’ll last nearly five times as long if it’s... more than that. Naturally curious, he’s made a chart. He’s timed each kiss and listed the individuals' names as well as a litany of other possibly relevant variables. He has to keep count in his head though. Last time he brought a stop-watch it wasn’t exactly appreciated.

There are, in fact, many different types of touch that can bring him a lull from the constant noise. Most are tedious though, and raise far too many questions from those involved to be a plausible and efficient means for relief. He avoids those methods whenever he can.

There’s one way, however, that stands out from the rest. It makes the silence last the longest. If he’s lucky and it goes well, the respite can last almost an entire day. It’s almost too good to believe when he discovers it the first time. He’s giddy when he thinks about what this means. He spends the entire day alone in his room just enjoying the bliss of nothing.

When the slow hisses and whispers come back, somehow they seem even worse than before. It's then that he remembers how his mother had warned him. How she had stressed that it just wasn’t worth it.

He can’t help it though. It’s addictive, the silence. It’s a craving that eats away at him at the most unsuspecting times. He'll be sitting in the middle of a lecture when his body starts fidget and shake. Knowing that there’s a way he can have it means that he never ignores the sounds like he used to. They prod at him over and over _and over_ until, finally, he gives in and seeks the quiet.

“Hurry the fuck up already,” he’s practically growling as he glances at the clock hanging from the wall, “I have to go back to my dorm room soon.”

“Holy shit, Dick, calm down! It’s not like I won’t let you stay if it gets late.”

He kicks him, “Finals are coming up, asshole.”

“Oh trust me, I know.” Simmons watches the tall blond roll his eyes.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You always get like _this_ whenever finals roll around.” he gestures at the way Simmons is positioned, sprawled out in only his boxer-briefs on the thin mattress and leaning up slightly on his elbows.

“Yeah, well, it helps me study.”

He gives him an incredulous look, “Sex does?”

His patience is wearing thin. He doesn’t want to explain; not that he’d understand if he did. Instead, he helps him undress, pulling off his belt, “Are you seriously complaining?”

He leans over Simmons and places a kiss right along the underside of his jaw, “Guess not.”

And then the quiet starts.

Simmons is out of there as soon as they’re done, briskly waving goodbye as he pulls the door shut. He’s determined not to waste even a minute of his precious silence. If he wants to do well and graduate, he’s going to need all the quiet time he can possibly get in order to cram.

He pauses once he gets back to his dorm, resting against the door for a minute. He’s starting to feel sick again. He should be used to the feeling by now. It always happens whenever he forces himself to do this.

He grits his teeth. He’ll have to go back tomorrow night too. The silence never lasts longer than that.

 

“Front and center, Simmons!”

“Yes, sir!” Simmons stands as straight as he can and salutes. It’s been barely two days since he’s been assigned to Sarge’s command and already he feels the urge to impress the man. He wonders what his father would think if he could see him now. He wonders if his mother’s watching him too, though he's not really sure if he believes in a place for the dead. In any case, he desperately hopes she isn’t disappointed.

“Command saw fit to send us another soldier,” Sarge gives him a wide-toothed smile that seems painfully forced, “Now, ah’m gonna be a little busy settin’ up the, err, important, official things around here, so ah’m gonna need you to show him the ropes. Think you’re up to it, son?”

“O-of course, sir! I’m honoured!”

“Right then, he should be here any minute now. Go on, soldier.”

“Yes, sir!” Simmons gives another salute and then goes to don his armour before heading out of Red Base. He doesn’t have to wait very long before a small craft makes it’s way into his view and then starts to descend. He’s actually almost excited, the prospect of a teammate making him grin. But when the soldier jumps out, Simmons is immediately put off.

He’s wearing _orange_ armour. Not regulation at all.

He’s still frowning to himself and thinking of persuasive ways to get the new guy to change the colour of his armour (something more Red-team-appropriate because, really, _orange?_ ) as the soldier approaches, “Hey.”

“Hmm?” Simmons jolts when he realises that the rookie is standing right in front of him, “Oh, uh, sorry, what?”

“Nothing. I just said ‘hey’.”

“Oh. Okay…” Simmons resists the urge to start lecturing on the importance of following military code, “Um, hey.”

“I’m Grif.” His name makes Simmons startle and pause. The words dry up in his throat. He feels almost as if he’s heard it somewhere before but it's impossible to place. The name echoes in his head and he feels it tingle at the tip of his tongue. 

When the solider starts to awkwardly shift his gun from hand to hand, he realises he's been quiet for too long. He brushes the familiarity aside and chalks it up to some strange case of déjà vu, “Simmons.”

Neither of them say anything else. Other stray thoughts aside, Simmons is entirely too busy with all the alarms going off about this guy. Solider material he is most certainly _not._ First off, his armour is the wrong colour. Then his posture is all wrong for a military man. He’s not even holding his gun correctly and Simmons is pretty sure that there’s something that looks suspiciously like a snack-cake wrapper stuck to the outside of his helmet. The buzzing and hissing in his head is louder than ever. It’s almost like it's trying to tell him that this guy needs to be sorted out.

Simmons shakes his head. That’s definitely not going to be easy.

“So...?” Grif trails off expectantly.

“What?” Simmons is a little amazed to discover that he dozed off into his own thoughts again.

“Uhh, I dunno. Aren’t you gonna, like… show me around or something?”

“Oh! Um, right,” Simmons hates the way his voice squeaks as he says it. He's thankful that, at the very least, the new guy can’t see his face right now. He can feel it burning with embarrassment and knows from experience how (regulation) red it must be. So much for making a good first impression, “Follow me, Grif.”

“Cool.” He watches as Grif leisurely strolls beside him and guides him into Red Base. He tries really hard to ignore how good it felt to say his name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be safe, I'm warning for themes of addiction/drug addiction in this chapter. It's not quite the same but close enough to bear in mind if that's something you want to avoid.

Their encounters almost always go the same way. They’ll talk for a bit. They’ll get along. Then everything is just a mess.

 

Grif is practically wheezing with laughter, “You went to college?!”

“Yeah, so?” Simmons is immediately on the defensive, clutching tightly to his cup of coffee.

“What the fuck for, man?”

“What else do people go to college for?!” He hates the way Grif’s eyes are completely focused on him even as he leans back in his chair. He hates being on the spot like this. He hates that secretly he agrees with Grif’s sentiment but has to stand his ground anyway, “To get a degree, dumbass!”

Grif’s eyes light up in amusement, “Then you went ahead and became a soldier! What the fuck was even the point?”

“Shut up, Grif!”

When Grif continues to laugh, Simmons seriously considers dumping his drink all over him. Instead, he slams down his cup and exits the room, stomping his feet. Shortly after, Grif follows him, still chuckling to himself and shaking his head.

 

 It ends up as a strange sort of camaraderie. Simmons wouldn’t call them _close_ exactly but, somehow, no matter where he goes, Grif is never far behind.

 

“Dude.”

Simmons doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting at his desk, book in hand.

“Dude.”

He flips a page.

“ _Dude._ ”

Simmons continues to ignore him.

“Hey, dickhead, I know you can hear me.”

Simmons snaps his book shut with an unnecessary amount of force, “ _What_ , Grif?”

Grif responds from his position laying back on Simmons’s mattress, tone thoughtful, “Do you think they have a decent pizza place somewhere on this planet?”

Simmons tosses his book at Grif’s head.

“Ow! What the fuck, Simmons?!”

“Get the hell out of my room, Grif!”

 

They talk. A lot. There isn’t really much else to do in the canyon. They’ll talk for hours and hours and yet they never seem to talk about anything important. Simmons can count on one hand the actual _facts_ that he knows about Grif. Mostly, they just tell each other stupid stories from back home.

 

“So,” There it is again, that infuriating grin of his. Simmons can practically feel the judgement radiating off of him, “What you’re basically telling me is that you’re still a virgin?”

Simmons may be drunk but he’s pretty sure that that’s not at _all_ what he said, “What? No, you’re totally misunderstanding. What I meant was—”

“Shhhh,” Grif must be drunk too, because he’s leaning forward with a finger out like he wants to press it to Simmons’s lips to shush him. Simmons scoots out of reach. Grif doesn’t seem to notice, swaying where he sits and retracting his hand, “Backtracking isn’t gonna help you now. I’m never gonna fucking let this one go.”

“Whatever,” Simmons rolls his eyes, drinking down the last dregs in his glass before filling it up once more, “Hey, where the fuck did you get this stuff anyways?”

Grif doesn’t even have a glass. He’s drinking the stuff straight from the bottle. He gives Simmons a half-shrug, “Found it in the backroom.”

Simmons freezes.

Grif eyes the way Simmons’s finger curl tightly around the glass he’s just filled, “... what?”

When Simmons speaks, his voice is measured, “So. You’re saying that you found some alcohol. In the backroom. In _Sarge’s storage room_. And then you _stole_ it?!”

Grif is unfazed, “Yeah, I guess.”

Simmons stares at him open-mouthed.

“What?”

This time, Simmons _does_ pour his drink all over Grif.

 

Nineteen days. It’s taken just nineteen days of being around Grif for Simmons to start seriously regretting his decision to join the army. Every conversation with the guy is like pulling teeth. It’s gotten to the point where Simmons will walk into a room, notice that Grif’s there and immediately turn around and leave it again. It’s better than the never ending embarrassment and frustration that seems to follow otherwise.

Simmons groans and shakes his head, trying not to think about his terrible confrontations with Grif anymore. He doesn’t care if it’s unprofessional that he’s avoiding him. It’s not like Grif would care about that anyways. Dodging him is way better than the alternative of spending even more time with Grif and his uncanny ability to piss Simmons off.

He honestly doesn’t even know what causes it. He feels like Grif is actually a fairly easy going guy. Despite the occasional _(infuriating)_ comment, they get along pretty well. And yet, the longer Simmons stays around him, the more uncomfortable and irritable he gets. It’s annoying and ridiculous and he feels a lot better when he doesn’t have to spend hours over-analyzing it. So, he figures they’re both better off if he just completely avoids Grif instead.

What does it even matter anyways, right? It’s not like they actually need to be _friends_. If they get along on a strictly teammate to teammate basis that should be enough!

Grif probably won’t even notice the difference—

“Hey, are you avoiding me?”

“JESUS _FUCK._ ” Simmons yelps, jumping up in surprise from where he’s pacing in front of his desk. Grif raises a brow, leaning against Simmons's doorframe. He steps into the room and comes to a stop in front of Simmons who’s still trying to catch his breath. If he didn’t know any better, Simmons would say that Grif looked bored. As it was, he was surprised to note that he knew Grif well enough by now to see that he was forcing a casualness into his posture that he didn’t really feel.

“So, is that a yes or a no?”

Simmons backs up, reaching out to his desk for support, “Uh…”

“Look, if this is about what I said…”

Simmons halts, momentarily confused, “What you said?”

The corners of Grif’s mouth turn up a little, “Yeah, remember? When I told you that the colour of your armour was shitty and unoriginal?”

And suddenly Simmons sees what Grif is doing. He’s giving him an out. A way to get through this conversation without having to talk about what was really going on here. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more thankful.

He opens his mouth to repeat their argument from yesterday (“It’s red! It follows the fucking regulations, Grif!” “Regulations are for _nerds_ , Simmons. So hey, I guess it _does_ make sense that you’re so strung out over them!”) but he finds his brain unwilling to comply. Almost like it’s sick of beating around the bush with their awkward situation. So, instead, what _does_ come tumbling out is his response to Grif’s initial question.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you.”

The room falls silent. Grif is watching him, frown firmly in place. Simmons wishes they could sit down. He feels fidgety and slightly nauseous, “Well, I mean, I guess I _did_ but, not like… not in a bad way.”

“‘Not in a bad way’?” Grif repeats, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Simmons is in no way ready to have this conversation, “Look, I just… it’s hard to explain.”

“Yeah?”

“Err, yeah…”

There’s a pause in which all they do is stare at each other. Simmons feels increasingly uncomfortable as Grif studies him from across the room. He can feel a nervous giggle bubbling it’s way up his throat when Grif sighs, “Okay, I get it.”

His hand instinctively tightens where he’s grabbing the edge of the desk, “Uh… you do?”

Simmons watches as Grif breaks eye contact and looks at the floor, shuffling from foot to foot. He takes a deep breath like he’s trying to gather up the courage to say something. Simmons feels completely out of his depth. He doesn’t know what Grif _thinks_ he gets, but obviously he’s upset about it.

“I guess… maybe I can be… kind of overbearing sometimes,” Grif starts and Simmons can’t believe what he’s hearing, “Maybe even a bit of an asshole. But it’s kinda fucking hard _not_ to be when you’re stuck in a shitty situation with no way out.”

Simmons is at a loss. His grip on the desk slacks.

“I was drafted.” Grif grinds out and Simmons has never heard him so bitter, “I never wanted to be a part of any of this.”

Simmons feels his throat closing up. They’re veering into dangerous territory here. A genuine conversation is a step forward into a relationship he isn’t quite sure he wants to have with Grif. His heart speeds up, the pounding loud in the silence around them.

“I had to make some pretty difficult… _final_ decisions before I came here,” Grif continues, voice growing stronger as he barrels on ahead, “It’s like I was finally getting a handle on my crappy excuse of a life and then, _bam_! Like a universal ‘ _fuck you_ ’ I had to leave everything I gave a shit about behind. So yeah, I’m a little angry about it. And yeah, that means that most of the time it’s hard to give a fuck about anything here.”

Grif looks up at Simmons now and his fists are clenched tight. It feels like maybe this would be an appropriate moment to console him but Simmons is frozen in place. In any case, it doesn’t look like Grif is quite done yet.

“So I get it. You’re a dedicated soldier. You came here with a purpose and you wanna stick to your fucking mission,” Grif’s eyes are trained on him and Simmons is forced to ignore the need to take another step back, “You probably hate it that you’re stuck with this dick who doesn’t give a shit about fighting the enemy or whatever the fuck it is that we’re supposed to do in this damn canyon. You probably hate having to listen to my crap every day and pretending to be interested. I get it. I do.”

Simmons wants to interrupt. He wants to protest. Despite himself, he _does_ enjoy talking to Grif. He enjoys the laughter and even the arguments. It’s a lot better than anything else he’s had in _years_. But before he gets the chance to voice any of this, Grif sighs.

His shoulders slump and he visibly deflates, looking away from Simmons, “This is the best I can do. I didn’t choose this. But I’m learning to live with it.”

“It would suck having to deal with a teammate who hates me on top of everything else,” he looks up again, forcing a small smile, “I guess what I’m saying is, maybe we could be… friends? Or something stupidly mushy like that?”

Simmons is halfway through nodding yes already. It was never his intention to make Grif feel shitty. He wants to make amends and try again, his uncomfortable feelings be damned. But as he nods and attempts to take a step forward, Grif sticks out his hand.

Now, Grif doesn’t actually _say_ anything. He only looks at him with a vaguely hopeful expression. No, ‘let’s shake on it’ or ‘whaddya say buddy?’ but the handshake is, unfortunately for Simmons, very heavily implied.

And that’s all it takes.

Simmons is immediately rooted in place. He stares at Grif’s outstretched hand. Just looking at it is like every memory he’s forced away tries to overtake the forefront of his mind once more. He swallows, mouth rough and paper dry. His body prickles uncomfortably. He doesn’t know if he can take another step.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have time to try. Grif notices his hesitation and slowly retracts his hand.

“Fine,” Grif sounds tired and in an instant, Simmons is struck with guilt, “I get it.”

Grif doesn’t linger, turning around the frame of the door. Simmons watches him go, unable to make a sound save for the harsh pounding of his chest. His thoughts are racing.

His hand twitches with the phantom feeling of touch. Bile rises in his throat. He can’t believe this is happening to him. Not after working _so hard_ to break his habit. Not after the months worth of effort he put into making sure he'd never lose himself to his addiction again. The memory of the wreck he became the first year after his mother died is vivid in his mind's eye.

The static was louder than ever back then. He was willing to do _anything_ to get it to stop. He didn't care that it often meant doing things that he’d regret. It didn't matter if it involved things that could harm him so long as it provided the sweet, silent relief he was after.

It took a particularly nasty wake-up call to bring him to his senses. It wasn't the scars he'd collected along his body. It wasn't the dull, dead eyes he looked into every morning in the mirror. It wasn't even the stress from his seedy, back-alley 'colleagues' that did it. No, it took a particularly terrible decision that almost got him killed to finally sober him up. When it came down to it, he valued his life; what was left of it at least. He didn't really subscribe to the idea of an afterlife so losing the one chance he had to actually _do something_ wasn't exactly appealing. He steeled himself and did what he had to.

He acknowledged that he needed help. He needed direction and discipline; something that would keep him busy. Something that would stop him from chasing after the silence. He wasn't an idiot. He knew an addiction when the symptoms bit. It's just that, it wasn't exactly _textbook_ , was it? He figured that they didn’t just have rehab for this sort of thing. So, options.

He could tell people about his... affliction. Although, from what his mother had once told him, getting someone to believe him would be hard enough without the ever-looming threat of being 'studied' for more information. So, no telling people. But then, there weren't very many options left. The only one available to him that was as immediate and inexpensive as he was looking for would be...

The military.

It was fitting, he supposed. By all accounts, that's where his dad had ended up. Besides, if something happened, it wasn’t like he had anyone left to miss him.

So he left.

Basic training was a nightmare. Not the military training itself, though Simmons didn’t exactly _breeze_ through anything that required more effort than memorization. The most difficult thing was being in close quarters to so many people. Whenever the noises in his head got too loud, he felt the same insistent prodding in his brain while surrounded by people that he did in college. He was always _so_ tempted in those moments. Tempted to find someone, _anyone_ , and ask them to help him through the noise. So he trained. He read his manuals, he memorized the rules, the strategies, the names and places and histories of people he'd never meet and planets he'd never go.

He dealt with it by isolating himself. He worked alone, he hardly spoke and he never, _ever_ , took showers with the rest of the group. He’d wake up in the middle of the night if he had to, as long as he could avoid everyone else. He stole away from group activities and sat in his bunk while the others gathered in the community areas. He restricted himself from all forms voluntary touch. No friendly slaps on the back, no arms around shoulders…

Not even a simple handshake.

And it had worked.

That’s not to say it was _perfect_. He still had days where the intense volume in his head would distract him and Sarge would ask him what was wrong. But he could pass that off as a migraine. He could take a break to pull himself together. What was important was that he could _deal_ with it. He could bunker down and wait out the noise. It was more than anything he could have hoped for when he’d first signed on.

His gut clenches as he recalls everything he'd had to go through. It's a funny feeling really. Here he is, reconsidering everything he’d gone through just to shake Grif’s hand.

Okay, seriously though, _what the actual fuck?_ He’s known the guy for less than a month and already he knows he’ll regret it if they can’t return to the stupid bantering they did on patrol. He knows first hand just how lazy and annoying Grif can be and yet, he's willing to put up with all of that. Because, frankly, Grif was a breath of fucking _fresh air_ compared to the people he’s dealt with in basic. At least when Grif made disparaging comments about him, he did it to his face. If he has to admit it, it's nice being able to stand around and just _talk_ to somebody; no holds barred.

And all he has to do to get all that back is shake Grif’s hand.

Not that hard of a trade off.

He's  _fairly_  certain he can do it without immediately falling apart. After all, there's no guarantee that touching him would even bring about the silence in the first place. Honestly, even if it did, Simmons reminds himself that he's had plenty of practice dealing with the static and the fallout that comes with it. Surely a moment of quiet can't wash all that effort away?

Really though, this was all semantics. He's known from the moment Grif walked out the door what he's wanted to do.

So Simmons straightens himself up and sets his jaw.

“Grif, wait!” he calls, racing out of his room and down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story really got away from me. I started with one plot in mind and then it became... something else entirely. It's basically doubled from the projected two chapters into at _least_ four. I don't want to cap it at four at this point though, just in case something else changes. :')
> 
> EDIT: Fixed some glaring tense issues, ughh Added a bit too~ Nothing plot changing but worth reading for a better sense of flow imho


	3. Chapter 3

Grif loves his family more than anything.

Although, it bears clarification, that when he says 'family', really that only includes his mother and sister (and maybe that greasy old dude that runs the taco shack because _dang_ those tacos are good). It doesn't include the father he's never met and it _certainly_ doesn't include the step-father that left his mom to have the baby on her own.

Kaikaina is born into the world much like he had been. Tiny, shrieking and fatherless.

Whatever. If he never needed a father, he doubts Kaikaina will either. Their mother has a beard for Pete's sake! He may just be eight but he's pretty sure that qualifies her for fatherhood just as well as anyone else. It doesn't matter in any case-- she _sings_ to him, and only good people do that. He's sure of it. His step-father didn't have a single musical note to his name.

That's how he already knows he loves Kai. Even as her tiny little hand grips his finger, she sings.

 

His mother doesn't spend as much time around them as she used to. Her song is fading.

It's Kai's third birthday but they aren't doing anything special. Usually, his mom will have saved up for some presents and a cake. Today, she's whispering urgently on the phone with someone and doesn't even seem to remember. His world is quieter than he ever recalls it being and it unnerves him.

Grif shifts away from where he's eavesdropping at his mother's door and returns to the room he shares with his sister. Kai is sitting on the floor biting on the plastic, blue pick-up truck he found last week on the beach. She immediately brightens when she sees him come into the room.

"Desser!" she squeals happily, holding out her arms like she wants to be picked up.

Grif holds a finger up to his lips and she quiets, watching him intently. He takes a seat in front of her on the well-worn rug and puts both hands behind his back. She stares up at him curiously.

"Do you know what today is?" he asks.

Kai shakes her head wildly left and right.

"It's your birthday," Grif smiles, bringing his hands forward and uncovering her gift, "Happy Birthday, Kai."

His sister leans forward and sees the bright yellow bow in his hands. It glitters even in the dim light of their room. Her eyes go wide and she looks up at him in disbelief.

"Desser, for me?" even with her limited vocabulary she sounds reverent.

Grif nods and then moves to put the bow in her hair. He sets it to the side of her head, leaving most of her short, brown tresses free. He pauses a moment and just watches as it sparkles in her hair. He smiles at her, “You look good in yellow.”

Satisfied with the pleased expression on her face, he pulls back to find a mirror. He doesn't move an inch further before Kai jumps on top of him.

"THANK YOUUU!" she screeches in joy, hugging him tight.

And with the symphony that echoes off of her right now, pulsing as Grif wraps his arms around her, he could almost forget how silent the world had been just moments ago.

 

He's not supposed to leave the house. His mother had been very clear about that. If someone found out that a minor like him was alone in the house for over a week, social services might come take him away. Or worse.

He's supposed to wait. Alone.

He's supposed to watch the place until she and Kai come back from the only doctor in the state that they haven't cheated out of money. She couldn't afford to take them both and risk emptying the house to thieves. He knows that, he does, but...

It's just so _quiet_.

He thinks he remembers reading that silence could drive you crazy. It might have been at school. Though, if he's being honest, he doesn't pay attention much even on the days that he _does_ scrounge up the willpower to attend. Maybe it was some article in a magazine; like those Reader's Digests things in old movies. He doesn't remember all of it, (there was _so_ much stupid science-y stuff littered throughout the pages) but he remembers enough that it sends a shiver up his spine.

Sensory deprivation chambers. That's what his memory zeroes in on. About people going in and, soon after. begging to be let out because the silence was frightening in its intensity. Grif curls on his side in his bed.

It's how he feels right now. The world is quiet around him. All he can hear is the steady _thump-thumping_ of his heart, too loud in the darkness.

He thinks about the people in those quiet rooms. He thinks about hearing nothing but your own body. The sound of your ragged breathing. The sloshing of the fluids in your stomach. The prickly noises as each, individual strand of hair brushes, _just so_ , against the other. The rough, scratchy sound of fabric on fabric, the ever present crescendo of your heart raising higher and higher _and--_

His palms get clammy at just the thought. He can see why it could drive a person mad. He's certainly not doing any better.

He gets out of bed, t-shirt sticking to his body with sweat. The night is cool. His stomach churns and it's like he can hear everything amplified. Every, single, push of blood through every, single, artery in his body. A wave of nausea washes over him. He needs to get out of here.

He races out of his room, face hot and feverish. He stumbles through the hall and makes his way to the front door, forgoing his shoes in a desperate attempt to just _get out_. He wrenches the door open and almost falls to his knees as he crosses the threshold.

He patters forward a few steps, lungs tight and body aching. The chilly sea breeze hits him but he's still burning. He's afraid for a moment that he may actually die.

The nausea pulses through him again and this time he does sink down to his knees. He moans in pain, the sound lost in the noise that is every cell in his body chorusing as one. His stomach turns once more and his body makes a valiant effort in keeping it all in before Grif empties all of it onto the ground in front of him.

"Dude, that's fucking disgusting." he's not quite done heaving his guts out as he feels a shadow fall over him. The shadow doesn't say anything more as Grif finishes, just watches. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and attempts to get up but his shaking legs bring him right back down.

"Here." Grif finally looks up and sees the shadow as a teen not much older than he is. He's holding out his hand to help him up. Still a little unbalanced, Grif accepts and grabs onto him tightly for support. The silence disappears.

"Christ," the guy laughs as he lugs Grif up off the ground, "Have you ever considered going on a diet? It's a work-out just getting you up!"

Grif doesn't respond, too busy taking inventory of all his parts to make sure he's okay now that his world is no longer on mute.

"No pun intended." The teen chuckles to himself, pulling a pack of smokes from his pocket and plucking one out.

It’s not just a momentary relapse. The silence has retreated for now and Grif is no longer focused on the sounds of his body. Instead, he can hear the steady beat of drums. _One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four._ He looks up at the stranger, watching as he flicks open a green lighter that matches the streaks in his hair. He's never heard drums on a person before.

The guy catches him staring, "Want one?"

He holds out the pack of cigarettes to him. Grif is still a little dazed but he manages to nod his head without too much hesitation. He draws out a stick and holds it between his fingers.

"You should go see a doctor or something. In case it’s serious, you know?" he says as he lights Grif's cig.

Grif nods mutely, listening much more closely to the drumbeats all around him.

 

When he's sixteen, his mother dies.

He asks about alternatives to a funeral. The coroner takes pity on him and doesn’t ask for identification proving that he’s a legal adult. He signs a release form stating that he cannot afford to bury the body. His hands shake. The coroner tells him it’ll be up to the state whether to bury or cremate his mother. He’ll be informed when the decision is made.

He does his best to nod and makes his way back outside to where Kai is waiting on a bench. She’s kicking her legs where she sits, none the wiser. When she sees him approach, she grins and jumps up. She runs up to him, cotton dress twirling in the breeze. He forces a smile to his face and catches her when she throws herself into his arms.

“You took _sooo_ long,” she whines, going limp in his arms and forcing him to heave her to her feet, “This place is boring.”

He clears his throat to make sure his voice comes steady, “Sorry. There was a lot more to do than I thought there would be.”

She nods thoughtfully, standing up and grabbing his hand, “Did you find out where mom went?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” his mouth runs dry. He hadn’t thought of what to tell her. His heart aches at the thought of lying to her but the truth is definitely out of the question. She’s already had to deal with so much… this is just something he’ll have to sort through for the both of them, “You know how we were having money troubles?”

Kai nods again, quiet. Solemn as a third grader can be.

“Right, well, mom… she, uh… she found work!”

“Really?” she lights up, smile dazzling in the sunlight.

“Uh huh,” Grif continues, trying to overcome the overwhelming urge to look away in shame, “But it’s really difficult work. So… she won’t be living with us anymore.”

Kai looks a little put out. Still, she’s still curious, “What kind of job means she can’t stay with us?”

Grif thinks, “The… circus?”

“… the circus?”

“The circus.” Grif repeats, firm in his resolve.

There’s a beat where Kai seems to consider this. In the end, she accepts it and laughs, “Neat!”

Together, they walk home and, if Grif notices the lack of familiar singing, he keeps it to himself.

 

Changes keep coming at him as time passes. He’s just thankful that, typically, they’re minor things. Nothing like another death or a major illness or something shitty like that. No, he was lucky enough that he only had to deal with things like periods of joblessness and crippling debt. Minor changes like that he could handle.

Case in point; Kai is halfway through high school when she decides that she’s tired of being colourblind.

“How’s this look?” she asks, arms up and spinning around so he can get a good look at the outfit she’s wearing to school today.

“It’s fine.” he barely looks up from where he’s sorting through the mail, searching for the electricity bill he seems to have misplaced.

“ _Deeex!_ ” she pouts.

Grif sighs and gives her a quick once-over, “It’s fine. Could do with being a little longer, I guess.”

“Dex!” she shouts.

“What?!”

“Tell me if it _matches_!”

“Matches?” he’s bewildered, “Since when do you care if it fucking _matches_?”

“Since looking like you walked out of a thrift store stopped being cool.” she snaps.

“Was that ever cool…?”

“DEX!”

“Alright, alright! Jesus fucking christ,” he abandons his search and gives her a another look, “Yeah, you match. Well, mostly. You should probably ditch the green skirt though.”

She narrows her gaze at him, “Are you saying that because it doesn’t _match_ or because you think it’s _short_?”

“Can’t it be both?” he says sweetly.

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Smartest thing you’ve said in days.”

She flips him off as she goes back to her room to change. When she comes back out, she’s wearing a white skirt that’s even shorter than the green one. Grif spots it immediately and groans in annoyance. Kai smirks, triumphant.

“By the way, if you’re still looking for the bills, you left them on the dining table,” she calls as she slips on her shoes and makes her way towards the door, “Bye!”

He waves and locks the door behind her. Making his way back to the table, he frowns as he scans the area for the appropriate envelope. Not a thing in sight. He almost gives up when he spots a slip of white… right underneath a slice of buttered toast. He rubs his faced, tired. He figures he should consider himself lucky that he didn’t accidently _eat_ the damn thing.

 

“Hey.”

Grif never thought he’d say this but, his sister looks positively _demure_ when she comes to see him off. They’re the only ones in the room. Total privacy. Benefits of it being a one-man draft he supposes.

Correction. Not really a benefit; more like… a silver lining?

“Hey, y’rself.” he knows how he sounds. Voice rough and scratchy from hours upon hours of yelling at those in change. Fighting that it had to be a mistake, it just _had_ to. Who the hell had ever heard of a one-man draft? His words are now slurred from sleeplessness and, maybe, a _little_ bit of alcohol. He sounds like shit.

Feels like it too.

“So this is it, huh?” she’s so, so quiet. Grif wants to hold her. Wants to tell her to be louder. To scream and shout. Because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance to hear it again.

“Guess so.” he murmurs. They don’t really have very long for the send-off. Grif has to get suited up and head to one of the docked transport shuttles. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. Maybe a moon-side training facility? He has no clue. Never cared enough about this sudden change in his life to find out.

“Do you,” Kai starts, voice breaking halfway through. Grif can see her eyes start to shine. He hopes she won’t cry. He doesn’t think he’d be able to take much more if she does, “D-do you like what I’m wearing?”

“Huh?” he says, confused and more than a little worried that she’s hysterical. He humours her though and takes a closer look. She’s wearing a short sundress with leggings underneath. She’s got on small sandals and has ribbons in her hair. He looks back at her, uncomprehending.

She gives him a watery smile, “It’s yellow.”

All at once, his heart clenches painfully tight.

“A-at least, I think it is. I, um, compared it to a lot of pictures and things a-and this shade of grey seemed to be the _right_ grey, you know? And I thought, I mean, I…” she’s rambling now and Grif wishes… he wishes for a lot of things, “Y-you always said I looked good in yellow.”

Unbidden, the memory of his first gift to her comes to mind. When she looks up at him, she looks absolutely broken. He never wants her to look that way again.

Grif moves forward and wraps his arms around his baby sister. She buries her face in his chest and clenches tightly onto the front of his shirt. She doesn’t tear up but Grif can feel her shaking in his arms as he strokes her hair, fingers tangling up in sunshine ribbons. His eyes prickle uncomfortably and his voice wavers as he gives her a thousand reassurances that he’ll never be able to keep.

Kai just listens.

When an officer comes to retrieve him, they’ve already finished saying their goodbyes. Grif gives her a short nod as he leaves. She waves half-heartedly.

He suits up in a matter of minutes. From instructions to lists to rules to regulations; Grif’s only partially listening. He walks in a daze towards the shuttle and sits silently in place. As they ascend, several people around him _ohh_ and _ahh_ as they leave Earth behind. Grif doesn’t even look out the window. When they finally hit open space, there’s a collective cheer from the other first-timers while the regulars just laugh and shake their heads.

He doesn’t hear any of it. Couldn’t even if wanted to, really. He’s alone for the first time in as long as he can remember. Not a friend to his name. His stomach churns as he recalls another time he’d felt alone. He feels vaguely nauseous.

Around him, there is nothing but silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavily based on my own headcanons so I'm sorry if it didn't quite match up with yours! ^^;
> 
> First off would be the whole Grif and Sister being half-siblings thing. This stems mainly from the fact that Sister is canonically colour-blind and Grif (so far as we know) is not. As I understand it, what is basically boils down to is that the only way Sister could be completely colour-blind while Grif wasn't is if they had different fathers. While this isn't confirmed or denied by canon, the geneticist in me really enjoys this possibility so this is how I wrote it~
> 
> The other bit is the age difference between Sister and Grif. Again, canon is... very _lax_ with how ages and time in general work in-universe. (Palomo: How many years? | Simmons: Let’s not get into specifics.) Sometimes it seems like there's a huge difference in age between them and at others it doesn't seem to make sense that there would be much of a difference at all. Basically, I went with an age difference that was large enough to fit with most of canon and yet would still leave Sister at/above (depending on how old you think the BGC are during this time) the age of consent when she bangs Tucker; mainly because it squicks me out otherwise :')
> 
> I hope these things didn't interfere with your enjoyment of the chapter too much! Thanks again for sticking through this with me! ;u;


End file.
